Bath Day
by Mercator
Summary: Ah...There's nothing like a good, hot bath. What are characters in the DW doing in the tub? Peek and find out!
1. Copper

++Was in a silly mood yesterday, so I started putting together a few little fics about one of my favorite activities. I've got three here to start with, but some others are in the pipeline…I won't say whose baths they are. J Enjoy! ++

Copper            

            "There's a time in every man's life when he's got to face facts."

            A wrinkle of deep distaste curled itself on the unshaven face of His Grace Sir Samuel Vimes as he held up a sagging bundle of formally white linen and transferred it to a wicker basket in a corner of the master washroom at the Ramkin-Vimes house. He wiped his hands on one of the towels hanging on a brass rack until he felt them clean enough to point an accusing finger at the recipient of his wisdom, who was listening with wide, patient eyes.

            "The fact you have to face is this: You _stink_." 

            There was a gurgle of agreement.

            "This isn't an ordinary stink, mind you," said Vimes, dunking a sun-browned hand into the half foot of water in the copper tub. "I been near the Ankh, no, _in_ the Ankh in high summer down river from the tannery district. As bad as I stunk when I came out, I didn't stink half as bad as you do _on a normal day_. Now, I think you're old enough to take the consequences like a man. Am I right?"

            In answer, a bubble of drool slid down a hearty, pink chin. 

            "You bet I'm right. I wasn't born yesterday, boy. Look at this." Vimes pointed to the permanent tan line that separated the burnt weathered brown of his face and neck from the paler skin of his chest. "This isn't just a tan line, boy. This is the same thing as a canary in a mine. In the old days, when I was too filthy to see this line here, it meant –" He flicked a dirty thumb toward the tub. "Wash time. If I'd paid attention to that stuff more, maybe I'd of had better luck with the women. You remember that for the future, eh?"

            A voice carried from the other side of the washroom door. "What was that Sam?"

            "Just tellin' the boy what's what, Sibyl," Vimes called back.

            He lifted his son out of the bassinet, holding him at arm's length like the infant was a bomb about to go off. His bare feet slapped against the floor tiles as he walked carefully to the tub.

            "I don't want to hear any fuss from you, you got that?"

            Little Sam smiled at his father, a wet, loose-lipped grin that showed where here and there, milk teeth were beginning to show through the gums.

            "Right."

            Vimes eased them both over the lip of the tub. The water reached to just above his ankle. When he managed to squat down without dropping his son, Vimes had displaced enough water for it to reach halfway up his thigh. He set little Sam between his legs.

            "Now don't act like you can't sit up by yourself, boy. I've seen you."

             "Grrrgghslb."

            "That's no excuse. You have to show some backbone in everything you do. Next you'll be telling me you can't walk."

            Vimes wrung out a washcloth in the lukewarm water, rubbed some soap in and began gently scrubbing his son's back.  

            "You smell that? That is the smell of hygiene, boy. If you're going to be a lord and a duke and gods only knows what else, you have to learn to love that smell. Hardest part about being noble is staying clean. And the tights. Sometimes you have to walk around dressed like a daft peacock."

            Little Sam gasped and kicked his legs and squirmed, slipping out of his father's grip. Vimes scooped him up one-handed and set him on his thigh. He started wiping the cloth over the baby's bulbous stomach.

            "I feel the same way, boy. Men aren't meant to wear tights." He lowered his voice. "I cut holes in the blasted things on purpose, when no one's looking. Got me out of wearing them twice. Good, eh?"

            "What was that, Sam?" came the faint voice of Sibyl from the other side of the door again.

            "Just showing the boy how to wash behind the ears," Vimes called. He began washing little Sam behind the ears. 

            The baby caught a hold of the washcloth and held it in the iron grip of infants everywhere. Vimes tugged. The baby tugged back.

            "True enough. There are some parts a man's got to wash for himself." Vimes cleared his throat and cocked an eye at his son. "_Parts_. You prepared to do that on your own?"

            Little Sam grinned again. "Slrgirrlb?"

            "Shy one, are you? I'll turn my eyes away, then, but I won't --and I'm being very clear, here -- tolerate any 'accidents' in the tub. Understood? Right."

            Vimes turned toward the door, which at that moment opened, revealing the round, smiling face of his wife Sibyl.

            "All done in there?"

            "Grssb!"

            With a growing feeling of dread at the warm wetness spreading in slow increments over his thigh, Vimes turned back to his son. Little Sam still clutched the washcloth. He smiled with a look of contented relief. 

            Vimes gave the baby a final cleansing dip in the bath water before lifting him into Sibyl's outstretched arms. 

"Have to teach that boy some restraint," he grumbled. He reached for a pitcher and rinsed away the "accident" with a torrent of hot water that wasn't, in Vimes' opinion, cleansing enough to wash away the less pleasant joys of fatherhood.


	2. Metal

Metal

            It wasn't exactly a tub. 

When one thinks of a bath tub, there is the assumption that the occupant could at least recline in one form or another. The tub-like thing made out of some kind of pounded metal was the size of a wash basin. It barely had room for a small man to sit upright without having to sit on his feet. Reclining in the water was out of the question. 

            That was another problem. The water wasn't exactly clean to begin with.

            Bath tubs tended to have clean water poured in and then, after the bather had wallowed for a bit, scrubbed between the toes and displaced the grime of weeks, months or, in the case of C.M.O.T. Dibbler, years, dirty water was left behind.

            In Dibbler's case, it was clear from the beginning that when he was through, what he'd leave behind was water only slightly dirtier than it had been when he started. He'd hauled it out of the Ankh, which was less a river than a convenient municipal sewer. Billions of dangerous micro-organisms teemed in the sepia water but Dibbler, like most people on the Discworld, didn't believe in anything smaller than the eye could see. And everybody knows what you don't believe in can't hurt you. 

            That day, things were looking up in the Dibbler household, a cellar near the Shades. The household consisted of Cut-me-own-throat Dibbler, a family of gray rats in the small, unused oven, and a large colony of cockroaches behind the walls. That was more than enough responsibility for an honest tradesman trying to earn an honest living on the streets of Ankh-Morpork. Due to space constraints, the wash basin contained only Dibbler. The rats and cockroaches had to be content to watch.

            Before Mama Dibbler – gods rest her soul – passed away some years ago, she urged her son with her dying breath to bathe at least once a year. Throat the dutiful son had promised.

            Since then, what with the price of coal and the scarcity of clean water and the taxes and overhead and miserable interest rates, Dibbler hadn't really found it financially feasible to hold to his promise.   

            Until now.

            Things were looking up.

            Earlier that day, he'd succeeded in selling the Contract Bridge. It had been a pet project of his for some years, the location of a tourist gullible enough to put money down on a piece of immovable masonry. Said tourist was a mad playboy from Istanzia who, after the transaction, promptly attacked the bridge pilings with a pick axe. By the time the Watch showed up, Dibbler had disappeared.

            And so, with a pocket full of goodness, he'd cut a winding path through the streets, shooting shifty looks at anybody who might want to relieve him of his jingling fortune. This pre-emptive evasive action had led him to the _real_ reason things were looking up in the Dibbler household.

            The soap was barely a sliver, thin enough to see through, and Dibbler used it sparingly, dabbing it a bit on his toast rack chest, again on his face, then in his stringy hair. He leaned back as much as he could against the side of the basin and started rubbing the soap in.

            "Do I hear one dollar? One dollar? One dollar?" he said carefully.

            He cleared his throat, said "dollardollardollardollar" over and over again to test the acoustics in his cellar, and tried again.

            "Do-I-hear-one-dollar-one-dollar-one-dollar-one-dollar…"

            The dirt on his chest was displaced in the bit of soap and water Dibbler was absently rubbing in, and it was soon apparent that underneath the grime, Dibbler was still the color of the special sauce at Harga's House of Ribs. It was the deep-down grime of a lifetime.

            After taking a long breath, he launched again into his chant. 

"DoIhearonedollaronedollaronedollaronedollar…"

            He grinned, which revealed one of the reasons the rats were so comfortable living with him.

            "…onedollaronedollar-Two!-DoIheartwofiftytwofiftytwofifty-Twofifty!-Thankyou,sir-DoIhavethree…"

            The real reason things were looking up in the Dibbler household was that Dibbler had found his true calling. This doesn't happen to everyone; many people wander through life doing whatever comes along. Dibbler was a natural businessman. But, he'd thought when he heard the siren sound of prices chanted over the breeze outside a house widdershins of the river, he was a _born_ auctioneer. 

He'd wandered into the auction house like a man stunned, his billowing overcoat slouching off his body, his usually active fingers slack at his sides. Everything glittered. Carpets from faraway Klatch. Chandeliers from Ephebie. Delicately carved cherry wood tables from Pseudopolis. Paintings. Vases. Statues. It was everything Dibbler could do to keep from fainting straightaway.

            And the chanting! He'd stared open-mouthed at the well-dressed man in front of about fifty people, the man with the gavel who had a tongue like fiscal lightening. 

            Dibbler watched until a woman in the back row of chairs turned around, peered at him through her spectacles and said loudly, "Heeyah, hahve you evah _bathed_?"

            It stopped the auction. All heads turned to stare at Dibbler, who gave everyone a small wave. Shortly, he was escorted out of the house.

            But the seed had been planted. As he gathered the articles necessary for a bath, his mind had been filled with the heady thought of setting up an auction of his own. An auction for the people. On Sator Square maybe, to get the wizard customer base. He could get people to put things up for auction with him, and he'd keep a portion of the sales. It was brilliant. He'd make a million by Hogswatch.

            Dibbler wriggled his toes happily and pretended he had a gavel in his hand.

            "Threedollarsthreedollarsthreedollarsthreedollars…SOLD!"


	3. Porcelain

Porcelain

            Three servants, two men and a woman, stood shoulder to shoulder on one side of the deep, white porcelain bathtub, their uniforms gray, their faces ashen. Their hands were clutched before them as if they were praying.

            In a way, they were.

            At the moment, they were watching the long, pale index finger of Lord Havelock Vetinari pierce the bath water for one minute…two…then surface again. The steam wafting through the washroom and the light from assorted candelabras gave the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork a disturbing, unearthly look. His face had the pallor of a corpse and his dressing gown was white as a shroud. 

He trained his eyes on the female servant, Sarah. She had thin, calloused hands and large feet in black, buckled shoes. 

            "You are new here?" he asked.

            "Yes, m'lord." Sarah bobbed.

            The two male servants closed their eyes and tried to ignore the perspiration beading their foreheads.

            "I trust your colleagues have informed you of my requirements?"

            "Yes, m'lord," said Sarah, bobbing again. 

            The Patrician gazed down at the water, his lips pursed.

            "I believe we have ninety seven degrees."

            "Oh! But m'lord--"

            The only thing that cut Sarah's words was the look the Patrician gave her when he raised his eyes from the tub. It was a look that told her he was open to any and all contradictions as long as she was aware of the consequences of contradicting him. It was a quietly confident look of utter menace.

            Sarah looked to her co-workers for help but they had taken a step backward in an attempt to disassociate themselves from her.

            "Now," said the Patrician, folding his hands, "what is the required temperature of the water?"

            "Ninety six degrees, m'lord."

            "Correct. You were given a thermometer with which to measure this. Have you been instructed in its proper use?"

            "Yes, m'lord."

            The Patrician gave her an understanding smile. "Perhaps it malfunctioned." He went to the small porcelain table in the corner where the thermometer was usually stored. It wasn't there. After he went back to stand again in Sarah's direct line of sight, he looked at her expectantly. 

            She fumbled in her apron pocket. The slim glass tube with a few drops of quicksilver at the bottom was the smallest thermometer in the world. The inventor Leonard of Quirm had drawn the plans, while a master glassmaker had been persuaded to execute them. 

            Sarah wasn't supposed to carry the thermometer in her pocket but she'd been running late and had simply forgotten...

            She held it out to the Patrician, her hand trembling, the steam in the room and the heat from the bath adding to the dampness of her fingers.

            Lord Vetinari did not reach for it. He left her standing there, shivering with fear, holding the thermometer out over the tub.

            What happened next was inevitable. 

            Everyone in the room watched the glass slide from her fingers and slip into the water. 

            Strangely enough, Lord Vetinari did not look displeased. By the thoughtful expression on his face, he could have been watching an interesting scientific experiment.

            "Would you excuse us?" he said to the two male servants. They scurried out without a single sympathetic glance at Sarah. She watched them go with a mixture of envy and panic.

            The Patrician wiped a towel across his forehead.

            "A bit warm in here, don't you think? It would certainly be useful to know exactly how warm. I wonder how that can be achieved now that the thermometer is…" he looked over the tub, "…submerged. I am open to suggestions."

            "I could…fish it out, m'lord."

            "Fishing! What a lovely idea. By all means." Lord Vetinari waved at the tub, stepping back a bit to better observe Sarah from the standpoint of an audience watching the action on a theater stage. 

            Sarah pulled up her sleeve and looked into the water. It was too dim in the washroom to see much more than the reflections of the candles on the surface. Tentatively, she dipped her hand in, then pulled it out quickly, flicking the water off her fingers.

            "Too hot?" said the Patrician.

            "No, m'lord…" She gritted her teeth and tried again, reaching into the water, past her elbow, almost up to her shoulder. She still couldn't feel the bottom of the tub and had certainly not found the thermometer yet. When the heat became too much, she pulled her arm out and tried to rub away the numbness.

            "If I may make a suggestion," said the Patrician. "Perhaps if you stepped closer to the edge of the tub, you could lean down a bit further." He smiled pleasantly. "I'm sure you will find the thermometer much easier that way."

            Sarah got as close to the edge of the tub as she could, took a deep breath and reached in again. She was practically balancing herself on the edge. Though her fingers were tingling from the heat of the water, she rummaged around a bit and thought, for a moment, that she felt the glass brush past her fingertips.

            "I think I found it, m'lord!" she said excitedly. "I just have to…" 

She leaned over a little more…

            The Patrician looked on, his hands folded in front of his slightly upturned lips.

            …and the one shoe that was still on the floor slipped out from under her. She toppled head first into the tub. Water splashed over and onto the floor but not far enough to reach the Patrician, who had positioned himself at just the right distance to stay dry. 

            Sarah bobbed up, emitting little screams of surprise and shock. With one hand she tried to reposition the soaked bonnet that hung limply on one side of her head, while attempting with the other to stop her skirts from billowing unladylike over her knees.

            "Oh!" she cried.

             "Dear me," said the Patrician, his lips pressed firmly together.

            The servant tried to pull herself up, slipped and fell back again with a monumental splash that caused a tidal wave of water to course out of the tub and across the floor.      

            Since he believed firmly that all people should have the chance to help themselves, the Patrician observed her fail to stand up once more before offering the charity of his hands. He hauled her to her feet. She stood unsteadily, the water above her knees.

            "I'm so sorry, m'lord," she said, her uniform and apron sagging, her hair dripping. She looked on the point of tears. 

The Patrician almost felt sorry for her.  "No harm done," he said soothingly. "Accidents happen to the best of us."

            Sarah sniffed and clutched Lord Vetinari's hands for dear life as she eased herself onto the edge of the tub in preparation for swinging her legs out.

            "Haven't you forgotten something?" said the Patrician.

            Sarah's mouth dropped open. "But…m'lord!"

            He smiled briefly and acknowledged to himself that the poor girl had probably been through enough. "Never mind. Do be careful there…" He helped her over the tub and planted her on the floor.                            

            She dripped forlornly.

            "Can I…?…um… Can I go now, m'lord?"

            "Of course. It would be a pity if you caught cold." The Patrician opened the washroom door for her. Sarah bobbed a curtsey before squishing past him. 

When she was halfway across his bedroom, he called after her, "Do mind the carpets…"

Sarah gave a small yipe and sprinted the rest of the way to the hall door. 

The Patrician closed himself back into the washroom and allowed the full force of his mirth to rise to the surface.

He chuckled.

            As he discarded his robe and stepped into the bath water, he tried to feel ashamed about the slippery smear of soap he'd made on the floor an hour before, right where the maid had stood. But shame was one of those emotions the Patrician had discarded early in his political career after finding it generally inconvenient.

            He lay back with a contented sigh and let the heat of the water cocoon him up to his chin. The thermometer was next to his left foot but he didn't care what it said. He never really had.

Who needed entertainment in the streets when one could arrange it in the privacy of one's own palace?


End file.
